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iLIBMRY OF CONGRESS. I 



#|^^H' |w¥i 1° # 

I <=^i4^ ii.i.s-! I 

I UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. J 



HEROINES OF FRANCE: 



AN HISTORIC TRAGEDY, 



iKT n?"wo :f>.a.t=lts .^^isriD seatekt .a^Ots, 



BY MISS GABRIELLE DE NOTTBECK. 



ARRANGED WITH QUOTED PARTS F^OM SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS, 
AND ORIGINAL PARTS BY THE WRITER. 



706'^ bi'- 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, 

By Gabrielle de Nottheck, 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



/f 



1^- 



PART I. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 



Marat, 

Elise, 

Julie, 

Jaques, - 

Lenard, 

Graymalkin, 

Armand Corday, - 

Henri Corday, 

Adolphe, 

Charlotte Corday, 



A French Political Fanatic. 

Housekeeper of Marat. 

A Servant in Marat's House. 

Valet of Marat. 

A Robber. 

A Witch. 

Father of Charlotte. 

Brother of Charlotte. 

Lover of Charlotte. 

- A Normandy Peasant Girl. 



Villagers, Soldiers, Jailors, Priest, Executioner, Etc. 



COSTUMES. 
The Normandy Peasant Dress. 



NOTE. 



The play is a true historic tradition, with the exception of a few changes, made 
to render it a wholesome representation, and is the property of the writer. 



HEROINES OF FRANCE. 



PART I. 

CHARLOTTE CORDAY 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — An Open ]Vood. 

Enter two Villagers. 

\st Villager. Look up! Mark yonder dying sun; how like a 
■corpse it looks, whose agony was fierce, whose cries were spent for 
naught, whose blood like briny waves from a deep sea hath crawled. 
So sinks it into rest. 

2d Villager. Not a fair omen. Yet I trow a bright sun would be 
mockery ; therefore as well to let it frown and speak in honesty, than 
to set smiles upon the ills to come. — " Men judge by the complexion 
•of the sky, the state and inclination of the day." So, by the frowning 
•of the night, we know what smiles to-morrow he shall wear. 

\st Villager. Well, if thou'rt sad, " let's talk of graves, of worms, 
and epitaphs ; make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes, write sor- 
row on the bosom of the earth." 

2d Villager. Nay rather with thy wit turn to a livelier song. But 
look who comes ? 

Enter a third Villager. 

What! tarrying here? Look there! See how the village burns; 
lets haste, for in it are our lives. {^Exeunt. 



Scene Il.^A Village partly Imrned. Soldiers and Villagers. 

Enter a Villager {rushing among them, who is Adolphe.) Our 
goodly cause fights on our side. " The prayers of holy saints and 
wronged souls, like high-reared bulwarks, stand before our faces." 
With such array, let's down upon our foes. 

The Villagers make a rush toward the Soldiers; they cry, ay I ay / 
down upon them : down upon them. They fight ; several of the Villa- 
gers are slain, Henri Corday among them ; a fe7u soldiers also slain, 
Armand Corday is nuule a prisoner among several other villagers, 
others escape.) 

( The leader of the band of soldiers repeats an order of Marat.) 

I command, by order of Marat, that all prisoners be now conducted 
and chained in separate cells, there to await their sentences ; advance ! 

(Soldiers beat drums and the prisoners ate led captive. Curtain falls 
a?id rises upon the same scene. Villagers come to claim their dead, when 
the curtain rises they are kneeling and standing by them. Charlotte 
is kneeling by the body of her brother, and is the last one to remain.) 

Tableau Scene, f The first grief of Cuxrlotte that leads to her 
heroic revenge. J 

Charlotte. O noble brow ! O head made for a crown ! Alas ! that 
none, save one of dust, rests on thee, and yet a crown of dust, fash- 
ioned with blood, —with blood that died to save that dust, — is honor's 
crown, a far more kingly one, of rarer cast than any carved one with 
jewels o'er refined gold. (She suddenly looks up, sees how late it is.) 
The dew is falling and the night draws near, and yet not one life with 
me. Stop ! did I say none ? Ah ! yes, alas ! too true ; the dead are 
nothing save in outward view. They, like fine chiselled marble, bear 
for aye, those black or golden deeds recorded, that can never die ! 
{She sinks on her brother's form.) My brother ! O my brother ! 

Curtain Falls. 



ACT 11- 



Scene X.-Th. U.Urior of a coHasc-CMrhUe's honu-.-Tlu My of 
Henri laid on a b,e,:-Charlolle wafing h- it. 

AMfhe {o,/vo,.a,.s io,c;,r./ in.:) Come, dearest love, weep not ; thy 
teaxs mit ease, or thou, too, Charlotte, shall be made so weak , hke 
IT^i, hlly by his side thou-lt pine. That well beloved would never 
have it so Why vex the dead? Come, dearest, do not weep. 

aLio,io(iool,,.f.) Fie) fie for shame! What would'st thou 
have me do? If thou dost love me save thy land; take up thy 

''Zl/p/u: My sword? Where would you send it? It .s the 
tower to guard you, my life ; yea, all the manly vigor that I ave are 
bulwarks-bulwarks, fratl ones, to confront such 'o^^y^'"^^ 
dare but look, and these weak arms, like eagles' talons, or hke ttger 
teeth, shall stick into thetr marrow and there stay, ere one small 
■ finger or a tiny bone relent one atom from its prey. 

cold damp upon that brow-by those mute l,ps, no more to utter 
,,ords-by the high honor that preserves thy steps by the fon 1 ■ 
y„, b,„ L-by my love-thou, as a man, go figh, them w.tl dry 
word; I, as a woman, shall do all that woman can afford. [SAe 
s„aio/,es a dagger from iur M, o„d i.olds i, in the oir; Adolphe »„X« 
„ n,sl, to M;:e it from her ; shewrenehes away from hm) 

Scene \\.-A prison r^//.— Armand Cordav in ehains. 

Armand So in the winter of my ripened age, like a stout icicle 
that bit the air-hke a proud lion of its sil.er mane, have hunters, v,le 
blood drmkers, chained me here. They fain would smile to see how 
quick good ice can thaw ; how soon a lion's nature-its bold fire-can 



die; they fain would mock my homely gown, white hair; so far their 
mockery have twined their chains. Foul fiends! they knew that 
honest rags, however worn, can ne'er condemn, but that round coils, 
though warm from arms of kings, make honor blush, draw tears from 
strongest men. 

Enter a Jailor bearing some food for Armand. 

Jailor. " O dear discretion, how his words are suited ! The fool 
hath planted in his mem'ry an army of good words ; and I do know 
a many fools," that stand in worse condition, garnished like him, as 
steady in their good opinion. ( The jailor puts the howl on a low bench.)- 
Come, sip thy broth, t'is good as wine, [laughs) Ha ! ha, ha, ha. By 
Jupiter ! he scorns me for a cook. 

Armand. Good man. " For my own part I could be well con- 
tent." But grief, like a crooked bone, is wedged, it chokes me;, 
therefore, prylhee, let me feed on rest. 

The Jailor pushes Armand aside. 

Jailor. Away, ungrateful dog, " away you starveling, you elf skin, 
you dried neat's-tongue," you — [the jailor goes out, and slams the door 
of the prison.) 

(Armand stretches himself on a small straw-covered cot near the 
stand, 7vith bowl.) 

Enter Adolphe. 

Adolphe. "Why, how now, no greater heart in thee ? Live a little ; 
comfort a little; cheer thy self a little. Thy conceit is nearer 
death than thy powers." Thou can'st not live and yet resist 
from food. " For my sake be comfortable ; hold death awhile 
at the arm's end, I will here be with thee presently; and if I 
bring thee not something to eat I will give thee leave to die : but, if 
thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labor. Well said ! 
thou look'st cheerly : and Fll be with thee quickly and thou shalt not 
die for lack of a dinner. Cheerly, good father." [Exeunt. 



Enter Charlotte. 

Armaiid. Charlotte, my daughter, wherefore here ? My flower — 
the flower blooming near my trunk — oh! should she die — should her 
sweet beauty spoil by those vile hands —what would her father do ? 
Why, go stark mad. But wherefore healthy ? See I not the truth ? 
My child, yet not my child. She can but come to me, and that not 
oft ; I ?an but see her, cannot keep. Charlotte, no more mine. 
Have I no child? My heart stands still, my sight grows dark. 
Farewell my child, farewell, farewell, farewell ! [Faifits. 

Charlotte. O, father, dear, dear father, do not die; or, if thou 
must, wait till I come ; wait but one hour — or, if thou can'st, one da\-. 
See what thy child, thy tender girl, can do. {She bends nearer to him.) 
List, father; thou knowest my friend Elise ? [He revives a little.) I'll 
go to her this night — I'll coax her with a favor very light. Elise, rem- 
ember what thou said'st. She'll answer, " What, my child ? " Thou 
promised a wish ; that favor when I choose ; wilt grant it ? She, witli 
her kindly heart, will say, " Oh, yes." Then I will say, Elise, just let 
me go, and in my boldness, so to make a boast, let me go singly, to 
thy master's room. I'll only ope' the door, and if he be asleep, creep 
in, go round as lightly as a mouse, just make one turn for pride, and 
then — [she hesitates to finish the plan.) 

Arniand. [Without noticing her hesitation, continues.) Ay, that 
sounds cunning, but I see no plan. Well, child, what then ? 

Charlotte. [Hesitates, then finally Jinds courage to reply.) Before my 
shadow shall have crossed that room, by all the saints, by these strong 
walls that bind thee, he shall die ! 

Arniand [surprised.) My child I — Nay daughter, I'll not ha\e 
thee thus imperilled in thy cause. What if another by him.? — if with- 
in his hand a sword ? — What if? — 

Charlotte. Nay, father do not fear ; all shall go well, and very 
well. My plan, spun finer than a spider's web, to be undone, cannot 
be without spider's bite. The greatest men and foulest villains shrink 
from toads, from serpents, lizards, and all creeping things. I'm 
small and shall be one. So good night, father ; angels guard thee 



till I come. {They embrace. He, wild in divers thoughts, lets her go. 
He suddenly comes to a/id Ji /ids her go/ie — laorks at the door of celt witJi 
all his //light to ope/i it.) 

Ar//ia/id. Charlotte, Charlotte, come back ; my girl, come back ! 
What have I done — what have I done ? Come back — Come back ! 
It will not ope'. [Leaves the door.) Oh! had I Samson's strength. 
These feeble hands can only fold in prayer. [K/ieels.) Good angels 
come ; by this hour she is there [poi/its to heave/i.) Tarry not, but 
set me loose within yon land so faii-. [Falls dead.) 

E/iter Adolphe bri/igi//g a sz/iall basket of food for Armand. 

Adolf he. O, saints! have mercy ; another gone ! O, poor, poor 
Charlotte ! 'twill kill her. How can I hide this blast, this cruel cut- 
ting grief ? Her dear, dear father ! Now as I think, where has she 
gone ? O, cruel fate ! wouldst have the blood of all ? Thou dread- 
ful minister, I pray thee, take not all — Oh! spare my Charlotte! 

E/iter a Jailor. 

Jailor. 'Tis time I locked thee out ; but for the sake of thy good 
face, will wait; so tarry on. (^dY.!r ///£• /^6'^/i' c^ Armand.) What's 
this ? Did'st kill him, man ? 

Adolphe. Kill him ? Nay, I'd sooner spill each drop of blood 
that courses in me, than touch him, even with an angry look. 

Jailor. Is he thy father ? 

Adolphe. All but that. He would have been my father, had not 
fortune frowned. But where's my Charlotte ? — was she not here ? 

Jailor. My service is at later hours. She may have been. 

Adolphe. When saw you her the last ? 

Jailor. 'Twas yesternight, or, rather; yesterday just at the setting 
of the sun. 

Adolphe. Did she look calm ? 

Jailor hesitates to reply. 
Adolphe. Speak, speak, I pray you ! 



Jailor. Would'st have me tell thee ? 

Adolphe. Ay, go on. 

Jailor. She looked much as a troubled sea, that rocks long hours 
before the storm has come. Her breast did heave thus, and her eyes, 
methinks, if mine are right, were wet. 

Adolphe. [Li despair.) Enough, enough ! The storm has come. 
I hear the thunder, see the flashes fly. O, curses, curses ! Where 
am I— where am I ? {Half tidld, he rushes out of the prison.) 

Curtain Falls. 



ACT III. 



Scene I. — An open luood. 



Adolphe. " He jests at scars, that never felt a wound."— But he 
would weep, who'ld doctor such a sore, {puts his hand to his heart.) 
O, Love, thy darts cut far more deeply in, yea, far more deep, than 
cruelty can strike. The lover's blindfold eye sees but one scale, and 
leaves the heavier balance out of sight. And yet a man who never 
loves at all, is like a pinnacle upon a lonely rock; he hears the music 
of the lovely waves, but never springs to court them in the caves. 
For monsters such as he, the whales were raised. By Jupiter ! when 



they do spring, they're gulped and never rise. 1 need no learned 
doctor medicines or pills. Had I but news of Charlotte, all were well. 
Who'ed taste of love, must also drink the gall of martyrdom. 

Enter Lenard, a robber, disguised as a peddlar, selling luares. 
Adolphe. Did'st see a pretty maiden on thy way ? A girl with 
flaxen hair and hazel eyes ? 

Lenard. Ay, she's but a hundred yards behind. (Adolphe runs 
t(i Jind her. 

Enter a Villager. 

Lenard. Would'st have a pretty broom to plaster thy good wife 
with, when it's worn ? Or, if thou'rt soft, here's a toy to please thy 
babe, when graver cares annoy. 

Villager, [laughs) Ha, ha, ha, ha, old fo.x, I'll none of them, here's 
five sous for some snuff. 

Lenard. Here, take thy bunch. Blow thy trumpet anywhere save 
by the bishop's door, he knows me, and if annoyance comes, he'll 
track me as before. 

Villager. I'll pay thee with a cudgel for another warning, be there 
fifty bishops, or pound thy pasted wares into a hash. Begone thou 
prowling mongrel ot a Jew. [He pushes I.e^xkd foriciard, Lenard 
turns round upon hi/n.) 

Lenard. Thy first acquaintance with an Israelite, come meet me 
here at twelve, just on the stroke to-night. 

Villager, [he starts thinking it must be the robber Lenard. Says 
aside.) I wonder if he's Lenard ? {The Villager advanees to Lenard.) 
I tremble ; yet I am no coward — Thou art Lenard. 

Lenard. I am. 

Villager. May I pass on, or wilt thou hedge my way ? 

Lenard. [laughs) Ha, ha. Thou knowest not Lenard, it thou 
think'st thou can'st flee, {he tties to pull a pistol front his belt, the Vill- 
ager springs upon him and holds him down.) 

Villager. O, I am even with thee, though thou art Lenard. Come 
I'll be David, thou the Philistine. Thou hast been Philistine for 
miles around; hast murdered men and women, children, fools in vel- 



13 



vets, dames in silks. I now shall be thy slayer, yard for yard. Come, 
let me bind thee to this oak. [The Villager, ivith a rope Lenard 
had with his icares, fastens Lenard to an oak. Lenard strug}:;les to 
get away from his grasp, but cannot. The Villager binds his mouth 
7vith a handkerchief) Now let me bind the yelling portal of thy 
throat, so that no trumpet call for thy defense. {He ties the handker- 
chief.) So, so. Now let the vultures pluck thine eyes, the hungry 
wolves come pay their tribute. ( The Villager ffioeks Lenard.) 
How now, Goliath ? Would'st have me beg thee leave to pass ? 
Ha, ha, 'tis easy now to cut the shortest road for home. [Exei//it. 

Enter Adolphe in great distress, not having found Charlotte. 

Adolphe. " 1 wasted time, and now doth time waste me. For now 
hath Time made me his numbering clock. My thoughts are minutes, 
and with sighs, they jar. Their watches on unto mine eyes ; the out- 
ward watch, whereto my finger like a dial's point, — is pointing still 
in cleansing them from tears." [Turns round, sees Lenard.) What's 
this ? Lenard, the devil, hanging on a tree ? (Adolphe approaches 
him.) " On thee, the troubler of the poor world's peace ! The worm 
of conscience still be-gnaw thy soul ! No sleep close up that deadly 
eye of thine, unless it be with some tormenting dream, affrights thee 
with a hell of ugly devils. Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog ! 
Thou that was sealed in thy nativity, the slave of nature and the son 
of hell 1 Thou slander of thy heavy mother's womb I Thou 
loathed issue of thy father's loins ! Thou rag of honour I Thou de- 
tested." (Adolphe sees some one passing down a road, turns first, 
and stabs Lenard, then goes to on his way.) 

Adolphe. Here take this rough farewell before I go. (Adolphe 
stabs Lenard, nies on his wav. 



14 



ACT IV. 



Scene I. — House of Marat iti Paris, Elise sifH/ig seiciug in the 
court yard. — Charlotte, coming from a distance advances to her. 

Charlotte. When bees are busy they are ahvaj-s kind. " How 
doth the busy bee each shinuig hour, improves it at the utmost of its 
power." So working bees of course are good, because to work it is 
a virtue. So my EHse is, as she always was, good. {Stoops and kisses 
her.) Are you going to sit here long EHse ? 

Elise. Awhile ; come sit by me ; thy face looks warm — the breeze 
will cool thee. 

Charhdte. Gladly so, 'twill suit my purpose. But, dear Elise, 
{she draws her work as if to take it from Iter — Elise goitly resists her) 
stop old wive's work; I'd chat with thee. 

Elise. Speak on my child. 

Charlotte. Art angry Elise ? 

Elise. [Bends toward Charlotte, kisses her.) Nay, now, thou'rt 
in a fooling mood. Why child, I never loved thee better. 

Charlotte. Then wilt thou grant a favor ? 

Elise. Should it not weigh beyond my power, most gladly. 

Charlotte. May I go to the Blue-room — ^just look in ? I never 
saw it, save with thee one day I spied it through the key-hole. 

Elise. My master's ill. I dare not let thee near at such a time. 

Charlotte. Oh ! I'll go lightly as a bird, and if he be asleep 
'twould surely do no harm just to creep in, and hurry out. Thou 
knowest, when thou sickened at my home, how I did pass thee when 
asleep and never woke thee. 

Elise. Well I may grant, since good should be rewarded, thou 
shalt be, for now I mind me what thou did'st for me. Go child, if 
that can please thee. 

Charlotte. Oh 1 thanks, thanks, my true, my loving Elise. Tarry 
till I come, for I would fain be near thee when I've done. {Exeunt 



15 



£///er ]vLiE, a soTtint, coming from a basement, carrying a boivl with 
partly peeled carrots. 

Julie, [she calls.) Elise, Elise. 

Elise. What is it, Julie ? 

Julie. I've stolen from my work a bit, to come and tell thee of a 
dream, a dreadful dream, mixed with a nightmare, that I had last 
night. 

Elise. Well, come, let's hear it. (Julie comes and sits by Elise, 
peels her car?'ois, aful tells the dream.) 

Julie. I dreamt I saw a field with scorpions, aligators, toads ; all 
sorts of vermin, rats, and bats, and mice. And as 1 nearer went, I 
saw thy friend, thy tender Charlotte, battling with a snake. The 
snake, it hissed and curled, but the brave girl with her soft hands, 
did clasp its neck. It writhed, and tried to sting, but still she held. 
Then faint for want of air, it gasped and gasped, till with one leap, it 
broke from her, and breathed its last. 

Elise. No ill will come. 'Twas only the ravings of thy heated mind. 
Thou knowest Julie, how too big a drop of Hock can hurt thee. 

Julie. Nay, 'twas no Hock, Moselle or other wine ; I've .steadily 
drunk ale since Michaelmas. 

Elise. Oh Julie, Julie. 

Julie. Ask Father Claire, I tell him my confessions. 

Elise. Well I believe thee, take my hand for it. ( Tliey shake 
hands. 

Julie. Well met, well met. Dissevered friendship never can be 
healed, or if it is, 'tis like a mended pot. Never all smooth, all 
blended as of yore, but with an ugly seam that never was before. 
(Elise turns round, sees be hi ml her a fiddler and a man with a trained 
bear. The bear can be a man dressed up in furs to look like that ani- 
mal, having a bear's head mask, with a strap muzzle. Elise shrieks.) 

The man 7vith bear. Don't be afraid Madame, the bear's as gentle 
as a lamb. Come Bruno be a gentleman, show what a pretty bow 
thou can'st salute with. {The bear bows.) Now let us have a waltz. 
Come Bruno, come. [They waltz, the fddle strikes up a tune.) Now 



i6 



run get thee a partner for a minuet, while'st I go muster others for 
the dance. {The bear runs fozaani ]ulie, Julie and Elise terrified, 
run shrieking toward the house, and make good their escape. The fid - 
dkr and the man with bear in fits of hiughter. The men call Bruno 
and leave. 

Enter Elise, she comes back to get her work, then goes to the porch, looks 
through the bars of the gate, down the street. 

Elise. " That way the noise is. — Tyrant show thy face :" I ween 
'tis not with all thou'd play such games. I would that thou wert 
slain, thou and thy bear, that babes and timid women might have 
peace. (Elise stands looking down the street. A Trench Peasant 
woman comes up to her and says, through the gate : 

Peasant luonu^n. Elise, " tu as este en Angleterre, et tu paries bien 
le language." 

Elise. " Un peu, Madame." 

Peasant ivoman. " Je te prie m'enseignez ; il faut que j apprenne 
a parler. Comment appelez vous la main en Anglois ? " 

Elise. " La main ? elle est appelee de hand." 

Peasant zvonuin. " De hand. Et les doigts ? 

Elise. "Les doigts? ma foy, je oublie les doigts; mais je me 
souviendray. Les doigts, je pense qui ils sont appeles de fingres ouy 
de fingres." 

Peasant woman. " La main, de hand; les doigts, de fingres. Je 
pense que je suis bon escolier. J'ay gagne deux mots d'Anglois 
vistement comment appelez vous les ongles ? " 

Elise. " Les ongles ? les appelons de nails." 

Peasant unvnan. " De nails. Escoutez, dites moy si je parle bien ; 
de hand, de fingres, de nails." 

Elise. " C'est bien dit, madame; il est fort bon Anglois." 

Peasant woman. " Dites moi I'Anglois pour le bras." 

Elise. " De arm, madame." 

Peasant wo)nan. " Et le coude ? " 



17 



Elise. '■ De elbow." 

Peasant 7voiiian. " Escoutez moy Elise, escoutez. De hand, de 
fingre, de nails, de arm, de bilbow." 

Elise. •' De elbow, madame." 

Peasant woman. " Oh je m'en oublie; die elbow. Comment ap- 
pelez vous le col ?" 

Elise. " De neck, madame." 

Peasant -luoinan. " De nick : Et le menton ?" 

Elise. " De chin." 

Peasant woman. " De sin. Le col, de nick, le menton, de sin." 

Elise. " Ouy Sauf votre honneur en verite vous ' parlez ' aussi 
droict que les natifs d'Angleterre." 

Peasant woman. " Je ne doute point d'apprendre en peu de 
temps." 

Elise. " N'avez vous pas deja oublie ce ([ue je vous ay enseignee ?" 

Peasant woman. " Non. De hand, de fingre, de mails." 

Elise. " De nails, madame." 

Peasant woman. " De nails, de arme, de ilbow." 

Elise. " Sauf votre honneur, de elbow." 

Peasant 7Vomaii. " Ainsi dis je. De elbow, de nick, et de sin." 

Elise. " Excellent, madame." 

Peasant tvoman. " De hand, de fingre, de nails, de arm, de elbow, 
de nick, de sin. Cest assey pour une fois '' merci, madame, merci. 
Je me sauve pour disner. Au revoir, 

Elise. Au revoir, madame. 

The Peasant woman goes on her 7C'aj>, Elise stands looking doiun the 
street. 

Curtain Falls. 



i8 



ACT V. 

Scene I. —Charlotte i/i a passoge-ioay leading to Marat's room. 

C/iailotte. " It will have blood ; they say, blood will have blood ; 
stones have been known to move, and trees to speak ; Augurs, and 
understood relations, have by magot-jjies, and choughs, and rooks, 
brought forth the secret'st man of blood." — O 1 Many an old man's 
sigh, and many a widow's, and many an orphan's water standing 
eye. — Men for their sons', wives for their husbands', and orphans for 
their parents' timeless death, " Have" rued the hour ever thou wast 
born— The owl shrieked at thy birth, an evil sign ; the night-crow 
cried aboding luckless time ; dogs howled, and hideous tempests 
shook the trees. The raven rock'd her on the chimney's top and 
chattering pies in dismal discord sung. — Teeth had'st thou in thy head 
when thou wast born, to signify thou cam'st to bite the world ! {S/ie 
rushes forum rd a few steps as if Marat were under her and she stab- 
bing him.) Down, down to hell ; and say I sent thee thither — See 
how my sword weeps "for revenge!" " O, may such purple tears be 
always shed," flow down until revenge is bought ! {She advances till 
she comes to Marat's door, looks round to see if anyone is near. Listens 
at his door.) How still — all dead — in silence — save myself; but oh ! 
my heart it leaps, leaps as though struggling to desert me. Yet the 
heart is truer to one's self than aught. Than aught, e'en though a 
monster, a warrior 'gainst all other hearts it prove. Heart to heart is 
not all mixed with love, such close communion dives as deep in hate 
as ever in the fields where tender passion dreams. Now for the 
hour ! Mount up, my soul, mount up 1 Thy courage dare not slack. 
Mount up my fury ! Need I whij) it up ? Hate boils itself, nor 
needs one coal to feed it.^^ 



19 



bCENE II. — The Blue roo/ii. Marat wra^^cd li'itJi a robe, on a coudi. 
— A very dim H;::;Iit Inir/ii/ii^. 

Enter Charlotte. 

Charlotte. He sleeps; 'tis well. First let the tiger lick its jaw, 
and choose what side 'twill turn upon its prey; then with a leap, 
spring on if; and the work is o'er ! 'Tis a foul victim for a goodly 
meal. A sickly prey dies quick ; 'tis better so. My prize is only in 
thy death, not in thy carcase save to spit on it. [She advances, lays 
the dagger against his cheek; he turns, disturbed in sleep, and says, as if 
in a dream :) 

Marat. What cold was that that chilled me ? I am wrapped. 
Death never comes so near, then passes on. Sure, if it was death's 
hand, it only stroked ; that is a gentle way, then why not sleep ? 
Why should I not sleep as before ? Enough of trouble when it 
bustles at the door. [He begins to sleep, Charlotte rouses him.) 

Charlotte. 'Tis come foul villain. Think you mercy will be kind? 
Where is the mercy thou did'st show to man ? 

Marat. [Starts up.) What's this ? 'Tis not a dream. My senses 
sleep not. I am full awake. [He tries to Jind out what disturbed hint; 
he sees Charlotte.) Who art thou ? Angel, devil, or tormenting 
ghost ? 

Charlotte. I'm none, yet live for all. 1 live to work out venge- 
ance for dead men ; I live to kill a devil in his prime ; I live my 
work to crown when done — ay, e'en the angels shall look down and 
smile. 

Marat. Come, can a woman ever raise a hand 'gainst man ? 

Charlotte. Ay, so think men till virtue proves she can. 

Marat. Where is thy gentle heart ? The tender heart of woman, 
thou can'st show no pity ? 

Chailotte. Pity! Monster, how cam'st thou by that word? 
Beelzebub it was who taught thee. Show me his dictionary. Pity 
is not there. Pity ? Look in my eye, wretch, read it there. Look 
in ; behold the father and the brother of this germ. They cried to 



thee for pity ; thou had'st none. Know then that pity, ay pity no 
longer shall implore. Justice is waiting till death hath open for thee 
hell's dark door. (Marat shrieks for help; tries to pull the bell cord. 
Charlotte springs upon him, and with a dagger stabs Marat.) 
Charlotte. Too late ! too late ! Die, villain, die ! [Exeunt. 

Eiiter Jaques, valet of Marat. 

yaques. Murdered! Nay, he hath killed himself His suffer- 
ings, I ween, were too intense. So let him lie. {Spreads the robe 
neatly over the body.) I'll search this matter, though it cost my run- 
ning legs till Doomsday. 

Enter Elise. 

Elise. {Shrinking back at the sight of the corpse.) Dead I dead ! 
Can he be dead ? 

yaques. Ay, even so. Now, by the saints, I mind me of a girl, 
a stranger. What did she with you? {The truth fashes on Y.'liz'e, 
but to save herself arid Charlotte she hides her eiiudion under a pre- 
tended fear <9/" Jaques.) 

Elise. {Te7-rified by Jaques.) Why, Jaques you frighten me. 
Have you gone mad ? A friend may see a friend, that's naught 
amiss. You saw the girl ; she came to while an idle hour here. 

yaques. Nay, she did while no hour with thee, for I myself did 
let her in. Then, won by her sweet face, I, for excuse, did sit by 
thee ten minutes after she had come. Then hastily back to my work 
returned. What was it ? A whistle, a knock, did call me ? At 
that time she had gone. 

Elise. Well, what of that ? A bird may light and wish to linger 
on a bough ; something may come affright, divert it sooner from its 
place. E'en so might she have for a reason left. 

yaques. Did'st know her reason ? 

Elise. Nay. 



J^aqiics. Dost swear thy nay ? 
Elise. 1 do. 

yaques. Then I'll not tarry ; too long have I delayed ; the foe 
has fled. Saints, send me in you aid. (^Exeunt. 

Scene III. — A street in Paris. Charlotte led doivn the street by 
tivo officers. Adolphe/ww a side street rushes to her. 

Adolphe. Good saints what do I see ? Charlotte ! Charlotte ! 
Can it be Charlotte ? (Charlotte, at the sound of his voice, faints, 
he runs and stahs one of the officers in the back, the officer fa//s dead. 
He then ffights with the other officer and finally kills hint also. Ch.ar- 
lotte revives and calls for help. 

Charlotte. Help 1 Help ! good citizens. Help ! Help 1 [A 
croiud gather round them, but a /r afraid to interfere. Adolphe stabs 
the officer and makes his escape Tt'//// Charlotte.) [Exeu?it.) [The 
crowd stand looking at the body of the officer. An office) comes to see 
what is the cause of the crowd, from his post in a further part of the 
city. 

Ofiicer. AVhat's this ? Come wag }Our tongues ! Are ye such 
cowards that ye dar'nt speak ? [A clownish boy in the crowd screams.) 

Boy. Hold peace in gratefulness, your liver's saved. [The officer 
in a rage tries to break through the croiud to get at him, the crowd pre- 
vent the officer.) 

Officer. Here you sleek puppy, let me cut your tongue. [The 
officer then turns to the cnnud and says :) Is this the defense to give 
the Capitol when matters stir up wrong ? Fie 1 fie ! ye mongrels, ye 
cross bred curs of France. Have devils tied you dumb? [The 
crowd rush upon him and push tojuard a side street.) 

Crowd. Enough ! Enough 1 Let's collar Mm ! Let's collar 
him. [Exeunt. 

[Men, wonwn and children are seen in the streets. Seirral women 
canyijig baskets with vegetables or fruit. Children playing.) 



{Enter a iiiaii ivith a bill^ sticks it to a post. The bill reads thus .- 
t^oo francs rcioard. — For the r?/-ri!'j-/ c?/ Charlotte Corday, murderess 
of Marat. Signed by order of the Police; Headquarters, Rue St. An- 
toiiu\ Paris. August.): ///l . 

{A nuxn passing along the street goes up to the sign, reads it.) 

Man. O 1 horrid picture of a death to come. And yet " I thank 
thee who hast taught my frail mortahty to know itself; and by those 
fearful objects to prepare this body like to them, to what I must. 
For death remembered should be like a mirror, who tells us life's but 
breath, to trust it, error." I trust my death will never come by such 
a road. {//e shi^'ers at the thought, and goes ou his way ; he looks so 
miserable a good hearted /ishe/'man has pity on him.) 

Fishernuvi. How now, how now, is it "Black jNIonday" with thee? 

A fan. No, blacker than all days, I never saw a gold day yet. 

Fishernuvi. Hast ever been at sea? 

Man. When a boy, methinks I once was there. 

Fisherman " Can'st thou catch any fishes then ? " 

Man. " I never practised it." 

Fisherman. " Nay, then thou wilt starve sure ; for here's nothing 
to be got now a days, unless thou fish for't." 

Man. " What I have been, I have forgot to know ; but what I 
am, want teaches me to think on. A man throng'd up with cold ; 
my veins are chill, and have no more of life than may suftice to give 
my tongue the heat to ask your help, which if you shall refuse, when 
I am dead, for what I am a man, pray see me buried." 

Fisherman. " Die, quoth-a ? Now gods forbid ! I have a gown 
here ; come, put it on, keep thee warm. Now, afore me a handsome 
fellow ! Come, thou shalt go home, and we'll have flesh for holidays, 
fish for fasting days, and moreo'er, puddings and flap-jacks; and thou 
shalt be welcome." 

Man. I thank you sir. " Thanks, Fortune, yet after all my crosses, 
thou givest me somewhat to repair myself. A\'here with it, I may 



23 



appear a gentleman." I'll go find a trade. " And if that my low 
fortune's better, I'll pay your bounties; till then rest your debtor." 
{They shake /lands. Exeunt.) 

[Enter a man in the street, he finds a small bu)idle which is a crushed 
letter.) 

Man. Ho, ho ! What's this treasure floating in the dust ? No 
diamonds, pearls or rubies. {Laughs.) Ha, ha, ha, ha, I'll warrant 
'tis some lover's jewel though. A bit of poetry. Tut, tut. Senti- 
mentality. Ha, ha, ha, ha, of course. A piece about the heart. Ha, 
ha, ha, ha. ^\'hat could dig closer to the heart ? [dfe reads the 
verses.) 

THE HEART. 

How oft it flutters like a bird. 

All trembling with delight; 
How oft the drops from galling tears 
Have left a bow at night; — 
A bow, whose red, whose blue, whose green, 
Too hidden were, ihough, to be seen. 

O, could each draw the misty veil 

That wraps another's heart. 
How much of joy, how much of pain 

Would linger or depart. 

How much of love we thought was ours 

We'd find a treasure flown; 
Then tears and sighs no more need ask 

Why turned that heart to stone. 

'Tis some Ophelia wrote this for her Hamlet. I'll be pale Hamlet, 
till Hamlet comes for it. {A band of soldiers pass down a street, he 
7'uns with the crowd after it.) 



24 



Scene IV. — Charlotte /// a wood by a cave, an old luitc/t Ivsidf her. 

Charlotte. " O, where is" x\dolphe, " saw you him to-day ? " 

Witch. " Madame, an hour before the worshipp'd sun peered forth 
the golden window of the east, a troubled mind drave me to walk 
abroad. Where, underneath the grove of sycamore, that westward 
rooteth from the city's side — so early walking — did I see your "love." 
Towards him I made ; but he was 'ware of me, " although he knew . 
me not." And stole into the covert of the wood. I measuring his 
"feelings" by my own, — that most are busied when they are most alone, 
— pursued my humor, not pursuing his, and gladly shunned who 
gladly fled from me." 

Charlotte. (Sighs.) " Ah, me, sad hours seem long." O, would 
I had sent word by thee. 

Witch. " Hie to your " cave, " I'll find " Adolphe " to comfort 
you." 

Charlotte. O, bid him come, yet grieve him not with how I pined 
for him. Go, good witch, go. 

Witch. Ay, ay, I'll go, if he be in the wood, I'm sure to find him ; 
so farewell lady, till 1 fetch thy Love. 

Charlotte. Farewell, farewell, until thou bring him here. " Is 
there no pity sitting in the clouds, that sees into the bottom of my 
grief.? O, fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle, what dost thou 
with him that is renowned for faith? Be fickle, fortune; for then, I 
hope thou wilt not keep him long, but send him." {She goes in the 
cave.) 

Enter Adolphe, icith a gun, wearing a game-bag at his side, filled 
with birds. 

Adolphe. Her spies, like thirsty blood-hounds, track the ground. 
Their " murderous shaft that's shot, hath not yet lighted. {He looks 
toward the cave 7C'here CuARi.OTT'E. is secreted.) And now our safest 
way is to avoid the aim." O, curse them. " A plague upon them ! 



25 



Wherefore should I curse? Would curses kill, as doth the man- 
drake's groan, I would invent as bitter searching terms, as curst, as 
harsh, and horrible to hear, delivered strongly through my fixed teeth, 
with full as many signs of deadly hate, as leaned-faced Envy in her 
loathsome pit." "My tongue should stumble in her earnest words; mine 
eyes should sparkle, like the beaten flint ; my hair be fixed on end, as 
one distract; ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban; and, 
even now, my burdened heart would break, should I not curse them. 
Poison be their drink ! Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they 
taste ! Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees ! Their chiefest 
prospect, murdering basilisks ! Their softest touch, as smart as lizard 
stings ! Their music frightful as the serpent's hiss ; and boding owls 
make the concert full ! All the foul terrors in dark seated hell " — 

(Charlotte comes fivi/i the cave, rushes out when she sess Adolphe, 
Adolphe rushes to her.) 

Cliarhtte. Adolphe! Adolphe! {They embrace.) 
Adolphe. " Foul whisperings are abroad ; but let's be bold and 
resolute ; — laugh to scorn. Be lion-mettled, proud ; and take no care. 
Who chafes and frets " is ever first to fall. Let's hie us, with best 
courage, from this place. Like birds who leave their nest, desert this 
cave ; and let who will come in and take his rest. ( They make a 
move to depart ; the loitch, coming fro/n the cave, calls.) 

Witch. Stay, children, stay. Come, Adolphe, lend an ear to me. 
[She leads Adolphe. Charlotte goes back in the cave. The Witch 
h'ads Adolphe to anotJier ohl hag. Mother " Graymalkin," who is 
s'irring a mess in a cauhlron. The first witch departs. "Graymalkin"' 
sings over ike cauldron.) 

" Round about the cauldron go ; 
In the poisoned entrails throw. 
Toad, that under cold stone. 
Days and nights hast thirty-one. 
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot ; 
Sweltered venom sleeping got. 
Double, double toil and trouble, 
Fire, burn ; and cauldron bubb'e." 



26 



{^The hag sees Adolphe. Adolphe shrinks in horror from her.) 

^'■Graymalki)!.'' " Good sir, why do you start : and seem to fear ?" 

Adolphe. [aside.) " This supernatural soliciting" can bring no good. 
If ill, why should I stay ? It may buy curses; then, why not away ? 
I'll 'bide no longer. Good-day, good witch, good-day. [He turns 
to leave.) 

'■'■ Gray null kin.'' Nay stay ; I prithee stay. 

Adolphe. Hast thou a prophecy .? 

'■'■Qraynmlkiiir Ay. A grave and timely warning for thee. 

Adolphe. Speak on I pray. 

'■^Graxnuilkin.'' [She drains a chart oracle from under a stone.) Draw 
near, look on. Mark how the needle points. There lies the road 
that thou did'st meditate to fly with Charlotte. (x\dolphe starts.) 
See there the beards, the staves, and hungry knives. (Adolphe 
shudders, the witch pats Adolphe on the shoulder, he kneeling beside 
her.) Come boy, list to my riper wisdom. [She dratvs from her 
pocket a long white veil.) Here, take this to thy Charlotte; forbid 
her more to wander from the cave, save when the white moon pales 
just on the stroke of twelve. Her spies will think she is a ghost, and 
for their lives will turn and take to heels. (Adolphe laughs.) 

Adolphe. Ha ha. Ha ha. How fine, like gold hid in a buried 
mine has been thy wit ! 'Twould take three-headed foxes to un- 
earth thy plan. 

''Graymalkin." Ay, trust me; that it would. 

Adolphe. There take this coin lor thy trouble, and here [he draws 
a bird from his ganu^ bag) this fatted bird to feed thy liver. 

^'Graymalkinr I thank you sir. If trouble comes again, remember 
Graymalkin. 

Adolphe. Ay, that I will. I now must hie me to my Charlotte. 
Good-day, Dame " Graymalkin." 



27 



^'■Grayiiial/dii." Good-day, kind sir, good-day. [A.DOi.vn'E goes on 
his way, the ivitch goes back to her canldro/i, and continues her song. 

" Fillet of a fenny snake 
In the cauldron boil and bake : 
Eye of newt, and toe of frog, 
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, 
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting. 
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing, 
For a charm to soothe all trouble, 
Bubble, bubble, boil and bubble, 
" Double, double toil and trouble. 
Fire burn, and Cauldron" hiss. 



Scene V. — An open ivood. Midnight. Charlotte, like a Ghost, 
with the veil entirely covering her, wanders round the wood. A 
thunder storm comes, the tain wets the veil; the charm is broken; her 
foes recognize her features and detect her scheme. They arrest her. 
In order to give the effect desired of the veil luet, the veil that hung 
loose before should be drazun tightly down over the face ivhen the 
storm begins. 

Enter a Robber. 

Robber. {Calls.) " What ho ! What ho ! What ho !" {Retakes 
out a whistle, and ichistles for a signal. 

Enter two Robbers. 

\st Robber. Come, lets' go search our gold ; come, come ; 'twas 
'neath yon rock I buried it. ( The Robbers go toward the rock ; wJum 
they come there, Charlotte is standing on it.) " Peace ; break thee 
off." Look, took, — look on, — look there. 

2d Robber. {.Starts.) "It harrows me with fear ;" methinks it is 
a shost. 



28 



2^d Robber. "See, it stalks away." (Charlotte leaves the rock ; 
comes back to it just as the men are about to roll it away to find their 
gold.) 

ist Robber. [Looks uj>, sees Charlotte.) By Jupiter, look up ; 
why here it comes again. (Charlotte comes nearer. Two of the 
Robbers tremble and run ofi'; the first Robber sloiuly retreats from the 
place, and stands looking at her.) Methinks it is a miser spirit, would 
bar us from our goods. What ever 'tis " truly I do fear it ! Yet," 
"what man dare, I dare ! Approach thou, like the rugged Russian 
bear, the armed rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger. Take any shape 
but that, and my firm nerves shall never tremble ; or be alive again." 
" Hence, horrible s'ladow !" (Charlotte disappears.) " Unreal 
mockery, hence ! — Why, so ! — being gone, I am a man again." (//e 
rolls back the rock and takes out the bag of gold.) Ha! Ha! my pret- 
ty coins ! I'd wade again another frightful sea before I'd lose your 
golden faces. (I/e takes the bag of gold, goes on his way.) Now, back 
I'll go and join my chicken-livered hounds. {Sings.) 

O, tell me what is like to wealth, 
Like to wealth, like to wealth ; 
O, tell me what is like to wealth, 
And a — 

[He starts, Charlotte appears again, face to face with him; he 
trembles, drops the bag, and runs ofi'. Thunder is heard— a heavy 
thunder storm breaks upon the scene.) 

Charlotte. Alas! alas! What shall I do ? Where can I go ? 
What shall I do ? The very heavens war against me. " Are there 
no stones in heaven, but what serve " for plunder ? " O, insupport- 
able. O heavy hour ! Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse of 
sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe did yawn at alteration." 
— What noise is this ? " The noise was high." Hark ! Hark ! 
[Men break through the wood, who are spies on Charlotte. Char- 



LOTTE sees the /jie/i, she shrieks.) What shall I do ? What shall I do ? 
I am unarmed, defenceless ; my veil no longer can protect. The 
cruel, heavy rain hath crushed my shield. Once more I'm in my 
natural helpless state, a bleeding deer, that's hunted by the foe. 
[She runs tvildly, shrieking, the men running upoJi her fraeks; tliey lead 
her off, captive. 

Enter Adolphe, lie sees Charlotte's %'eil on the i^round ; picks it up. 

Adolphie. Black ministers of night, what do I see ! Her veil ? 
Wheres, Charlotte ? Had she life, she'd wear it. Have wolves de- 
voured ? Nay, 'tis August. No wolves devour in summer time. 
{^He sees the bag of go hi on the ground.) Alack, alack, it is some other 
wolves ; see there the bulbous remnant of their tracks. O Charlotte ! 
Charlotte! Perhaps this hideous bundle will betray, {he picks up the 
hag) will give some scent to lead me on their way. [He opens it.) 
Gold, yellow gold. How came they to have held with such a girlish 
grasp ? How dear had gold been once to me and mine. Did ever 
man Ireathe yet, who smiled not at its hue .? Yet, bright and pre- 
cious as sweet gold it is, I'd rather cut my soul from out its seat, than 
touch one coin from such guilty hands. [He throws down the bag.) 
Away, away 1 Like as the ocean vomits up its pearls, so to the 
earth I fling their cursed ore 1 



Scene VI. — Charlotte /// prison, sitting on a hnv stool, wiping her 
tears. 



Charlotte. They say that trials sanctify the mind ; or else so sour 
it it turns to wrong. The tender deer that loves to lick the hand, 
may on the morrow face the hand and butt. Ay, that is bitter ; but 
not worst of all. 'Tis not the ghosdy fire of despair. {As she raises 
her hand to her brow, a stray lock goes with it. She sees her hair has 
turned white; she shrieks.) INIy hair white ! turned in a night ! 



30 



Enter Adolphe rus/iing to her. 

Adolphe. My Charlotte ! [Blank wit/i wonder, he holds her before 
him.) 

Charlotte. Do you not know me ? (Adolphe bows his head, and 
7iiee/'s.) 

Charlotte. Nay, do not grieve. Oh! far, far better to be born, 
born cursed now ; now wear the crown ; now drag the heavy cross ; 
now be cut up ; now stoned ; than to be nursed on fatted meats,, 
drink wines, die on a rosy bed ; then wake like baited worms to 
writhe for aye. 

Adolphe. " O woe ! O woeful, woeful day ! Most lamentable day,, 
most woeful day. That ever, ever, I did yet behold I O day ! O day L 
O day ! O hateful day ! Never was seen so black a day as this ; O 
woeful, woeful day ! " 

Charlotte. [She tunis to him ; they embrace.) Adolphe 1 Adolphe! 
[He rushes from her, and runs to a corner 7ohere he sees a bottle. The 
bottle contains a deadly mixture ; he goes back to her ; he tries to open 
the bottle.) 

Adolphe. See, Charlotte, see. Without despair, I never had con- 
trived ; 'tis only saints and fools when barriers intervene, submissively 
will yield, put on the yoke, then hive. [He etnbraces Charlotte.) 
Dear, dear Charlotte, thy death I cannot stay, but can be chooser of 
the instrument. 

Charlatte. O Adolphe ! Adolphe! [A.t>o'L'P\ie suddenly starts and 
runs to the window.) 

Adolphe. What's the hour ? 'Tis five ; the gates of Day just 
creaking 'ere they spring. Oh ! would I had the strength to roll back 
time, or mighty finger to hold still this hour. — This bitter, bitter hour,, 
yet honied golden one beside to come. ( Goes back toivard Char- 
lotte, finds her sitting, weeping. He has in his hand a handkerchief, 
with wme of the deadly mixture from the bottle he found poured upon it. 
Pours more on it as he advances. He intends to let Charlotte have 



31 



4.XII easy death ami escape the hh>ch. He //lakes seve/'al efforts to kill 
he/;j7/ially holds it to he/- till she falls.) 

Adolphe. {^He goes towa/'d Charlotte with the ha/ulke/xhief in his 
Jia/id. She does /lot see hi//i as her face is bu/ied i/i her ha/ids while 
she is weepi/ig.) O, not all the curling, biting flames of hell ; the long 
eternity without an end ; Unscabbered swords, or fearful, horrid 
sights; — could buy such torture as to take her life. O, how my 
strength grows weak, my senses numb. Before I blow that light, 
this spirit shall have flown. Are there no angels, or vile spirits of the 
air, in mercy, for one moment, can look down ? Look down, just 
spare one inch of passing Time, to let a sword or mighty cutlass fall 
to seal our deaths, end let Death crown it all ? But time doth fly, 
and words cry out in vain. So then, yes then, so let her death come 
quick ; ay, quick before she rise. 'Tis merciful, oh, most merciful as 
so ! No minutes now. Come hands and do your work. In killing, 
ye but prove unfathomable love. {He rushes to Charlotte, holds 
the ha/idkerchief fin/ily to her face. She si/iks back appa/r/itly lifeless 
in his ar/ns. He lays her gently o/i the floor. He looks at her.) "Alack 
the day; she's dead, she's dead. Ha! let me see her. [He feels her 
ka/ids.) Out alas ! she's cold ; her blood is settled, and her joints are 
stift'. Life and these lips " are " separated." Death lies on her, like 
an untimely frost upon the sweetest flower of the field. O lamenta- 
ble day ! O woeful time ! O me, O me ! — " My love, my only life, 
revive, look up, or I will die with thee." 'Tis done! 'tis done! No 
more to be undone. O, Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte. [He sinks 
■weepi/ig beside he/.) 

Curtain Falls. 



32 



ACT VI. 

The curtain rises upon the same scene. Adolphe does not appear ; 
he is so heart broken., he cannot come among the viUagers who appear on 
the scene to mount over Charlotte, ichom they think dead. Several 
maidens., with flowers., come. One of the viUagers takes up the body of 
Charlotte _//w/^ the floor and hiys it on a cot in the prison ; the maid- 
ens stretv the flowers over her, ivhile the villagers, with instruments^ 
play a hnu requiem. One of the maidens sings a dirge. 

DIRGE. 

" Fear no more the heat of the sun, 

Nor the winter's rages ; 
Thou thy worldly task hast done. 

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: 

Chorus. — Ciolden lads and girls all must, 

As chimney- sweepers, come to dust. 

" Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
Thou are past the tyrant's stroke; 

Care no more to clothe and eat ; 
To thee the reed is as the oak. 

Chorus. — The sceptre, learning physic must 

All follow this, and come to dust." 
" Fear no more the lightning flash ; 

Nor the all dreaded thunder tone ; 
Fear not slander, censure rash : 
Thou hast finished joy and moan ; 

Chorus. — All lovers young, all lovers must. 

Consign to thee and come to dust." 



33 



Scene II. (Charlotte, between the Jirst and second scene, has re- 
vived, the poison not having killed her, but merely having put her 
in an insensible state. Charlotte appears, dressed in white, led 
by Adolphe. The priest in front of them, villagers and a croiud fol- 
lowing behind. They march to the block, which is on an open 
square, tohere the Executioner is 7C'aiting. A few Soldiers are 
stationed to prevent a riot. 

Adolphe. [Embraces Charlotte, leads her totuards the block, 
pauses, and says) To pay the penalty for right can bring no pain \the 
crowd cheer him, a soldier points a rife at him; the leader of the sol- 
diers prevents him from firing.'] Shine out, fair sun ! Where are your 
smiles ? Charlotte goes but to sleep; among first wakers to awake 
again ! [He embraces Charlotte, afterwhich she waves a farewell to 
the Villagers. Adolphe falls fainting. ] 

Curtain Falls. 



JOAN OF ARC. 



36 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 

CHARLES, DAUPHIN, KING OF FRANCE. 
REIGNIER, DUKE OF ANJOU. 
THE DUKE OF ALEXCON. 
THE BASTARD OF ORLEANS. 
THE GHOST OF JOAN OF ARC'S MOTHER. 
JO.\N OF ARC, a Shepardess of the Village of Domremi, on 
the border of the Meuse. 

THE DUKE OF BEDFORD. 

EARL TALBOT. 

THE DUKE OF BURGUNDY. 

THE DUKE OF YORK. 

French Soldiers, English Soldiers, etc. 

Note. 

At the time of these battles, Henry the Sixth is on the throne of England. 



37 



HEROINES OF FRANCE 

PART II. 

JOAN OF ARC. 



ACT VII. 

Scene \.-Af/ open wood, a small chapel in it. Joan of Arc asleep 
under a tree opposite the chapel. The ghost i/ Joan's mother appears 
in the chapel. Joan, tcahing up, sees it. 

Joaji. ( Waking up, looks toiuard the chapel, and advances to^card 
it.) What's that ? What's that ? Some wretched spirit broken 
from its grave. See how it beckons. I've done harm to none, why 
should it call? [She goes nearer, shrieks.) My Mother! 'Tis my 
mother I [She grozcs calmer, and looks at her.) 

The Ghost of Joan's Mother. Joan ! My daughter ! 

yoan. O gracious mother, thou knovvest how I love thee. Spare 
me, mother, and leave me yet my life. I love the world ; I love my 
life ; though I have mourned for thee, my raining tears have laved 
me mornings, nights, for weeks, for months in sorrow, for thee ; but, 
oh ! I cannot come. Mother, O spare me yet ; my gentle mother 
come not as the fearful herald of my death. {She shrieks.) I can- 
not die I I will not, will not die ! 

The Ghost of Joan's Mother.) Fea.- not, Joan, 'tis thy life I bring. 
Thou art a virgin that was formed by heaven, to be a woman captain 
a leader among men. France dies without thee. So buckle on an 



38 



armor, take a sword ; bid Domremi farewell ; hie to the king, tell 
him what thou hast seen, and trust me Joan he shall let thee go. 

yoau. Ay, ghostly mother, I shall go. France, bleeding France, 
is calling ; I'll away ; nor shall this small arm rest till it hath felled 
each foe ! {Tlw Ghost of ]ok^'''^ MotJier vanishes. ]Q).\^ Jiics to the 
kiii£.) 



Scene II. — The I'i/hjge of Donirenii. When the ci/rtai/i lises, a troop 
of soldiers in a fih- on each side of the stage, are fhiying the 
" MarsellaiseT Joan enters, dressed in a steel arinor, like a man, 
with a short white tunic, ^L'ith a bine sash belt ; she is mounted on 
a steed, lichly harnessed. 

Enter the Bastard of ^^Orleansi" 

Bastard of Orleans. " Where's the Prince Dauphin, I have news 
for him." 

King Charles. " Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us." 

Bast. '* Methinks your looks are sad ; your cheer appalled. Hath 
the late overthrow wrought this offence ? Be not dismayed, for suc- 
cour is at hand : A holy maid hither with me I bring. Which, by 
a vision sent to her from heaven, ordained is to raise this tedious- 
siege, and drive the English forth the bounds of France. The spirit 
of deep prophecy she hath. Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome; 
what's past, and is to come, she can descry. Speak, shall I ' bring' 
her in ? Believe my words, for they are certain and infallible." 

King Charles. " Go call her in. {Exit Bastard.) But first ta 
try her skill. Reignier stand thou as Dauphin in my place. Ques- 
tion her proudly ; let thy looks be stern : — By this means we shall 
sound what skill she hath." {Retires. 

Re-enter the Bastard of Orleans, leading the steed on tuhich Joan is 

mounted, {a flourish of trumpets,) Joan springs from her saddle. 

Reimier. " Fair maid, is't thou wilt do these wondrous feats ?" 



39 



yoaii. " Reignier, is t thou that thinkest to beguile me ? \V'here 
is the Dauphin ? — Come, come from behind ; I know thee well, 
though never seen before. Be not amazed, there's nothing hid from 
Tue. In private will I talk to thee apart : — Stand back, you lords, 
and gives us leave awhile." 

Reigiiicr. " She takes upon her bravely at first dash." 

yoiifi. " Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd's daughter ; my wit 
untrained in any kind of art. Heaven and my gracious 'mother' 
hath it pleased to shine on my contemptible estate. Lo, as I ' slept 
beneath an oak,' and ' from ' sun's parchin_g- heat my cheeks with- 
drew my ' mother' deigned to appear to me, and in a vision full of maj- 
esty willed me to leave my base vocation and free my country from 
calamity. In complete glory she revealed herself; and whereas, I 
was black and swart before, with those clear rays which she infused 
on me, that beauty am I blessed with which you see. Ask me what 
question thou can'st possible, and I will answer unpremeditated. My 
courage try in combat, if thou dar'st, and thou shalt find that I ex- 
ceed my sex. Resolve on this, thou shalt be fortunate if thou receive 
me for thy warlike mate." 

-f^i'ig Charles. " Thou hast astonished me with thy high terms. 
Only this proof I'll of thy valour make. In single combat thou shalt 
buckle with me, and if thou \anquishest, thy words are true ; other- 
wise I renounce all confidence." 

yoati. " I am prepared ; here is my keen-edged sword, decked 
with five flcnvcr-(h'-Iitces on each side ; the which at Tourraine in 
Saint Katherine's churchyard, out of a great deal of old iron I chose 
forth." 

King Charles. " Then come ; ' come on ;' I fear no woman." 

Joan. " And while I live I'll n'er fly from a man." [They Jjght, 
and ]ox^ overcomes.) 

King Charles. " Stay, stay thy hands, thou art an Amazon, and 
fightest with the sword of Deborah." 

Joan. " My ' mother ' helps me, else I were too weak.'' 

King Charles. " \Mio'er helps thee 'tis thou that must help me. 
Impatiently I burn with thy desire. My heart and hands thou hast 



40 



at once subdued. Excellent Joan, if thy name be so, let me thy 
servant not thy sovereign be. 'Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee 
thus." 

yoaii. " I must not yield to any rites of love, for my profession'.s^ 
sacred from above, when I have chased all thy foes from hence, 
then will I think upon a recompense." 

King Charles. " Meantime look gracious on my prostrate thrall."' 
Rcignicr. " My lord, methinks is verv long in talk." 
Ah'ticoii. " Doubtless, he shrives this woman to her smock, else 
n'er could he so long protract his speech." 

Rcigiiier. " Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no mean V 
Alencon. " He may mean more than we poor men do know : 
these women are shrewd tempters with their tongues." 

Reigiiicr. " My lord, where are you ? What devise you on ? 
Shall we give Orleans, or no ?" 

yoan. " Why, no ! distrustful recreants ! Fight till the last gasp. 
I will be your guard." 

King Cliarles. " What she says I will confirm ; we'll fight it out." 
yoan. "Assigned am I to be the English scourge. This night the 
siege assuredly I'll raise: Expect Saint Martin's summer halcyon 
days, since I have entered in these wars. Glory is like a circle in the 
water which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, till by broad spreading it 
expand to naught. With Henry's death, the English circle ends ; 
dispersed are the glories it included. Now am I like that proud, in- 
sulting ship which Cjesar and his fortune bare at once." 

King Charles. "Was Mahomet inspired with a dove? Thou 
with an eagle art inspired then. Helen, the mother of great Con- 
stantine, nor yet Saint Philip's daughters, were like thee. Bright star 
of Venus, fall'n down on the earth. How may I reverently worship 
thee enough ?" 

Alencon. " Leave off delays, and let us raise the siege." 
Reignier. " Woman do what thou can'st to save our honours ; 
drive them from Orleans, and be immortalized." 

King Charles. " Presently we'll try. — Come let's away about it : 
No prophet will I trust if she prove fal.se." [Exeunt.) (Joan boivs: 



41 



to the King and sonw of his men as they /ass out ; then makes a signal 
to the Bastard of Orleans to help her mount her steed.) 

yoan. Arise ! away ! to kill the vultures floating 'neath thefr own 
of Heaven. Ay, vultures who'ed clutch the hearts of mothers, make 
their children carrion, soil the flags of honor, capture our maids to 
serve as sensual feasts, swallow our gold, then dance to hear it ring. 
Sack all the wealth of France, then rest on bloody seas from toils of 
war. Awake, arise, arise, ye gallant sons of France, and angels pros- 
per Joan till she win the day. Away ! Away ! (Joan rides off, the 
soldiers follow her.) 



Scene III. — Rouen. Enter ]o.\'s, disguised, and soldiers, dressed like 
peasants, with sacks on their backs. 

Joan. " These are the city gates, the gates of Rouen, through 
which our policy must make a breach. Take heed, be wary, how 
you place your words ; talk like the vulgar sort of market-men that 
come to gather money for their corn. If we have entrance (as I hope 
we shall,) and that we find the slothful watch but weak, I'll by a sign 
give notice to our friends, that Charles the Dauphin may encounter 
them." 

A Soldier. " Our sacks shall be a means to sack this city, and we 
be lords and rulers over Rouen. Therefore we will knock." 

[Knocks.) 

Guard, [luithin) " Qui est la ?" 

Joan. " Paisans pauvres, gens de France. Poor market-folks, 
that come to sell their corn." 

Guard. "Enter, go in, the market bell is rung." [Opens the gate.) 
yoan. " Now, Rouen, I'll shake thy bulwarks to the ground." 

'[yoa.n and soldiers enter the city.) 



42 



Enter Charles, A7//^i,' of France; the Bastard of Orleans; the 
Duke of Alencon : Reignier; Duke of Anjou; and Forces. 

King Charles. " Sainl Denis bless this hapi:)y stratagem ! and once 
again we'll sleep secure in Rouen." 

Bastard. " Here entered Joan and her partisans. Now she is 
there, how will she specify where is the best and safest passage in ? " 

Reignier. " By thrusting out a torch from yonder tower, which, 
once discerned, shows that her meaning is : no way to that for weak- 
ness which she entered." 

Ente7 Joan, o)i a battlement, holding out a torch burning. 

Joan. " Behold, this is the happy wedding torch that joineth 
Rouen unto her countrymen, but burning fatal to the Taboltites." 

Bastard. " See, noble Charles ! the beacon of our friend, the burn- 
ing torch in yonder turret stands." 

Kifig Charles. " Now shines it like a comet of revenge, a prophet 
to the fall of all our foes I " 

Reignier. " Defer no time ; delays have dangerous ends. Enter, 
and cry, The Dauphin,! presently and then do execution on the 
watch." [They enter the toiun.) 

Scene IV. — Enter from the town, the Duke of Bedford, brought 
in sick on a chair, with Earl Talbot, the Duke of Burgundy, 
and the English Foices. Then enter on the 7oalls, Joan, King 
Charles, The Bastard, ///.-■ Duke of Alencon, Regnier, 
and others. 

yoan. " Good morrow, gallants ! want ye corn for bread ? I 
think the Duke of Burgundy will fast before he'll buy again at such a 
rate, 'Twas full of darnel, do you like the taste ? " 

Bur. " Scoff on, vile fiend, and shameless courtezan. I trust ere 
long to choke thee with thine own, and make thee curse the haruest 
of that corn." 



43 



King Charles. " Your grace may perhaps starve before that time." 

Bed. " O let not words, but deeds, revenge this treason ! " 

yoan. What will you do, good gray-beard ? break a lance, and 
run a tilt at death within a chair? " 

Talbot. " Foul fiend of France, and hag of all, despite encom- 
passed with thy lustful paramours, becomes it thee to taunt his valiant 
age, and twit with cowardice a man half dead ? Damsel, Fll have 
a bout with you again, or else let Talbot perish with his shame." 

yoan. " Are you so hot, sir ? Yet, Joan, hold thy peace ; if 
Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow." ( Talbot and the rest consult 
together. ) 

Talbot. " Dare ye come forth, and meet us in the field ? " 

yoan. " Belike your lordship takes us then for fools to try if that 
our own be ours or no."" 

Talbot. " I speak not to that railing Hecate, but unto thee, Alen- 
con, and the rest. Will ye, like soldiers, come and fight it out ? " 

Alencon. " Signior, no." 

Talbot. " Signior, hang ! base muleteers of France ! like peasant 
footboys, do they keep the walls, and dare not take up arms, like 
gentlemen." 

yoan. "Away, captains; let's get us from the walls, for Talbot 
means no goodness by his looks." Good luck to you, my lord ! 
" We came but to tell you that we are here." {Exeunt Joan and the 
soldiers from the tea lis.) 

Talbot. "And there we will be, too, ere it be long, or else reproach 
be Talbot's greatest fame. Vow, Burgundy, by honour of thy house, 
pricked on by public wrongs sustained in France, either to get the 
town again or die. And I, as sure as English Henry lives, and as 
his father here was conqueror, — as sure as in this late betrayed town, 
great Coeur de Lion's heart was buried, — so sure I swear to get 
the town or die." {Exeunt. 



44 



Scene V. — The last battle betiveeu the French and English. The 
F)ench defeated. Scene, the tcnvn of Anglers. 

Enter Joan. 

Joan. " The Regent conquers, and the Frenchmen tiy. Now, 
help, ye charming spells, and periapts ; and ye choice spirits that ad- 
monish me, and give me signs of future accidents! [Thunder.) You 
speedy helpers, that are substisutes under the lordly monarch of the 
North, appear and aid me in my enterprise ! 

Enter Fiends. 

Joan. "This speedy, quick appearance argues proof of your accus- 
tomed diligence to me. Now, ye familiar spirits, that are called out 
of the powerful regions under earth, help me this once that France 
may get the field." [They tualk about and speak not.) "O hold me 
not with silence over long! Where I was wont to feed you with my 
blood, I'll lop a member off, and give it you in earnest of a further 
benefit ; so you do condescend to help me now." ( They hang their 
heads.) "No hope to have redress ? My body shall pay recompense 
if you will grant my suit." [They shake their heads.) " Cannot my 
body, nor blood-sacrifice, entreat you to your wonted furtherance ? 
Then take my soul, my body, soul and all, before that England give 
the French the foil." [They depart.) "See! now the time is come 
that France must vail her lofty-plumed crest, and let her head fall 
into England's lap. IVIy ancient incantations are too weak, and hell 
too strong for me to buckle with : now, France, thy glory droopeth 
to the dust." [Exit. 

Alarums. E)iter French and English fghting, Joan and York 
fighting hand to hand. Joan is taken. The French fiy. 



45 



York. " Damsel of France, I think 1 have you fast; unchain your 
spirits now with spelling charms and try if they can gain your liberty. 
A goodly prize, fit for the devil's grace ! See how the ugly witch 
doth bend her brows, as if with Circe she would change my shape." 
Joan. "Changed to a worser shape thou canst not be." 
York. " O, Charles, the Dauphin, is the proper man : No shape 
but his can please your dainty eye." 

yoan. "■ A plaguing mischief light on Charles and thee ! and 
may ye both be suddenly surprised by bloody hands in sleeping on 
your beds !" 

}ork. "Fell, banning hag! Enchantress, hold thy tongue." 

yoau. " I pr'ythee give me leave to curse awhile." 

York. " Curse, miscreant, when thou comest to the stake." 

^Exeunt. 



Scene VI. — A mai-ket place in the town of Rouen. Joan tied 
to a stake. Flames burning around her, her arms charred, and 
streaked until blood and gore. At intervals she shrieks with 
pain, or groans in agony. A mob and soldiers of the British forces 
stand looking at her. She pronounces a curse upon. Elngland and dies. 



yoan. The curse that creeps from out the jaws of Death, all 
heavy curses I now pluck from out my grave. Down, down, from 
that drear cold abyss I fetch those venomed stings for England's 
head. May all the other countries that round England lie, rise in 
one mighty army under some pretense, and war disable her; turn her 
a hunch-back with four dangling limbs, and leave her seated thus to 
mourn her foulsome state. Thus seated, to think and weep o'er 
endless woes; pine o'er her dull captivity; like some huge mon- 
ster wasting all its days in gnawing for its flight ; gnawing back on 



46 



self, same spots to gnaw again; and with that gnawing but to gnaw 
in vain ; thus with all curses more that any can invent, my soul 
breaks from its seat. Away ! Away ! Shake off this dusty mould, 
France, France, — I'm free, — I'm free. [Dies. The soldiers, when 
they see Joan is dead, propose a " WakeP The mob drink wine, and 
break bottles, a general confusion takes place. The soldiers join hands 
and dance round the body (y'JoAN singing a song.) 

Leader of the soldiers. Come, lets join hands and have a song, and 
all who're in the limits of a mile hie to the " Wake." ( The soldiers 
dance and sing.) 

Hi, ho, the witch is dead, the witch is dead ; 

The witch is dead, hi, ho, 
The witch is dead, hi, ho, hi, ho, hi, ho. 



Curtain Falls. 



END. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
016 112 414 A • 



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